


The Adventure of the Final Amendment

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, Bloodplay, Criminal Law Amendment Act, M/M, Sadism, Things go rapidly downhill, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1885. Holmes and Moriarty continue their protests... but is Holmes growing a conscience?</p>
<p>As this is narrated by Moriarty, there is little or no moralising: violence/rape/torture are pretty much normal to him. Please do not read if these themes upset you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Final Amendment

**Author's Note:**

> The Criminal Law Amendment Act was passed on 14 August 1885. It raised the age of consent from 13 to 16, and included a large number of clauses aiming to prevent under-age prostitution. Late in the proceedings, an additional clause was introduced by MP Henry Labouchere, for imprisonment up to two years for any man found guilty of gross indecency with another man, in public or in private. No definition was given of what constituted "gross indecency" but, in practice, this was widely interpreted as any male homosexual behaviour short of actual sodomy (which was already a crime, and remained a more serious and separate one).

After the excitement of our act of violent rebellion, Holmes became rather maudlin. Perhaps it was the lack of visible effect in which our threats had resulted. Our letters had been published as planned, and the _Illustrated London News_ even led with a sketch of the damaged theatre, emblazoned across its charred frontage with the block letters ‘Beware of sods’, which some reckless member of our party had managed to paint onto the derelict building under cover of darkness. Yet the legislature refused to budge, and Sir Howard Vincent only intensified his campaign against our number – regularly proclaiming the Yard’s proximity to rounding up the conspirators. While we set little store in these words, we also knew that much more would be needed for us to benefit from the wanton destruction that had injured many of our fellow citizens (for, somewhat to my own disappointment, Holmes’ plan to limit the level of violence had miraculously succeeded in preventing any deaths).

Although our political efforts had previously had the effect of rejuvenating our relationship, in the aftermath of the explosion Holmes’ interest in the pleasures of the flesh seemed to wane, so I was rather pleased when, some weeks later, young Toby Vincent turned up at our lodgings. Holmes expressed no surprise at seeing the lad, but merely removed his pipe from between clenched teeth for a moment.

“I suppose your father has rather more pressing matters to deal with than your exile to America, Mr. Vincent.” He remarked. The boy grinned broadly.

“It would seem that way, Mr. Holmes.” He said cheerfully. “Between you and me, he’s at his wit’s end. If he can’t uncover a lead before long, it’s likely he’ll be forced to resign. He certainly no longer has the time or inclination to follow _my_ every movement.” As he spoke, Vincent practically danced across the room, throwing himself down with languid carelessness onto the couch where I was myself seated. He rested his head against my shoulder. “I thought we three might pick up where we left off.” He added.

“Tempting offer.” Holmes considered it for a moment. “However, I have a few matters to attend to elsewhere.” He paused for a second, and his eyes travelled to fix on me. “Or perhaps it would be unwise to leave the pair of you alone. Who knows _what_ might occur in my absence!” I raised an eyebrow at him, letting one hand wander down the side of Toby Vincent’s body. Vincent laughed musically.

“All _kinds_ of depravity, I hope!” He looked up at me, eyes sparkling.

“Well, who am I to deny a young man his desires?” I grinned back, fingers finally reaching Toby’s groin, stroking firmly across it. The boy squirmed against me with another giggle. Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“I’d be careful what I wished for if I were you, young Vincent.” He warned drily.

“Well, where do you suddenly have to be in such a hurry anyway?” I responded tersely, starting to get rather irritated by Holmes’ superior manner.

“I don’t think it need concern you.” He said brusquely. “Might I remind you in my absence, my dear Moriarty, that Mr. Vincent here is by no means a street urchin. There would be considerable consequences were anything untoward to happen to him.” Toby looked rather bemused by this exchange, glancing from one to the other of us, his brow furrowed. Holmes’ supercilious manner was now frustrating me beyond belief.

“I may not quite possess your _remarkable_ intellect, Holmes.” My words were loaded with as much withering sarcasm as I could muster. “But I think I can summon up enough self-control to keep my neck from the noose!”

“Well then,” Holmes’ tone was icy. “There is no need for me to further intrude.” And, with that, he got to his feet, picked up his coat and hat, and stalked from the room.

Vincent’s pretty brow was still furrowed, and he tried to ask me to explain the conversation, but I silenced him with a kiss. I was fuming at Holmes: frustrated by not knowing what was going on inside his head, and with his absolute refusal to tell me what was bothering him. In the event, this caused me to exhibit a little less restraint than I had laid claim to. Certainly, Toby Vincent ended up with a few more bruises than he had anticipated, and made his displeasure at this clear in rather whiny tones.

I barely listened to the lad – still fixated as I was on Holmes’ behaviour – and, eventually, he gave up his remonstrations and left for home. I wasn’t sure whether he’d be back and, quite frankly, I didn’t care. What I needed was a case to bring Holmes and I together again – something to unite us in the cause that had previously been so dear to both our hearts.

**

 My first step was to turn to the young man who seemed to be an endless font of wisdom about his fellow sodomites: Charlie Wootton. As I took a seat at the bar of the Jugged Hare on the Caledonian Road, Charlie flashed me a wink and his trademark smile, but there seemed something a little downcast about his manner. After pulling a couple of pints for his regulars, he finally turned to me with a tot of gin.

“How’s life treatin’ yer, Mr. M?” He asked. I pulled a face.

Not as well as I would like.” I admitted, taking a swig of the rough liquor. Charlie nodded, leaning closer in a conspiratorial manner.

“Seems things hasn’t gone quite like we planned, eh?” He sighed. “Some o’ the chaps is thinkin’ of givin’ it all up. Some o’ them still has faith. We’re waitin’ for you and Mr. Holmes to tell us what to do next.” He managed another smile, and I couldn’t help but be touched by his attitude.

“I think we’ve all lost our way a little.” I told him. “Which is where I was hoping _you_ might help me, young Charlie.” Charlie cocked his head.

“Wanting a bit of light relief, are yer?” He grinned. I smiled back, the lad’s enthusiasm infectious.

“That, and some information.” I continued. “I need a case, Charlie. A man beyond the reach of the law and in need of Holmes’ skills; something to bring us all back together, to remind us what we’re doing this for.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, and he ran a hand through his unruly hair, pouring us both another measure of gin as he considered my words.

“I might know a feller…” He finally began hesitantly. “I don’t know as there’s anything can be done, cos ‘e’s in Newgate as we speak. He works down the Truman an’ Hanbury Brewery – a big, bruising feller, but a regular brick. There’s families strugglin’ ter survive on what Trumans pays, and when one cove died on the job ‘e tried to lead the others out in protest.” Charlie drew a breath, his face pained. “That blasted ‘Anbury hauled him off to the peelers and accused him of- of assaultin’ ‘is daughter!” Charlie downed his gin miserably, before continuing.

“Now ‘e’s under threat of the colonies – or even swingin’ fer it! And, well, everyone knows ‘e wouldn’t go _near_ a Lady Laycock!” I didn’t know the street slang, but it wasn’t hard to get the gist.[1] Charlie was right, though, it did sound a complicated case.

“Leave it with me.” I assured him, nonetheless.

**

I found out a few more details – including the man’s name, Frederick Thorneycroft – before heading home to Borough. Charlie had further been adamant that Thorneycroft was a popular man, and his fellow workers already planned to march out in support. He suggested we might join them – an interesting proposition, since it had never crossed my mind before that allying with a Socialist uprising might be beneficial for our own cause.

Holmes was seated at the table, several different newssheets spread out in front of him. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“I trust Mr. Vincent left in one piece?” He said, somewhat disinterestedly. I didn’t gratify this with an answer, instead seating myself opposite him, leaning forward as I tried to get his attention.

“I’ve found us a new case.” I revealed animatedly. “It’s perfect for our cause!” Holmes merely snorted.

“I’m not interested.” He said shortly. I was rather taken aback – and not a little angered – by this.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” I demanded. “I thought you didn’t like to judge hastily!” Holmes looked up then, his piercing blue eyes seeming to penetrate me. He paused for a moment, brow slightly wrinkled.

“Thorneycroft?” He said at last. I was enraged at this lucky guess – and still more that he appeared to judge the case unworthy of his attentions.

“Yes!” I insisted. “Is it not just what we need? His comrades will join our cause, whether they share our tastes or nay!” Holmes sighed and shook his head.

“The case is hopeless.” He returned his eyes to the page, and appeared determined to ignore my continued protestations. This so infuriated me that I rose to my feet, snatching the printed pages away from him in rather childish fury. 

“Talk to me, damn you!” My voice was raised in anger. “Why are you turning your back on this? On everything we stood for? On _me_?” The last word faltered a little, betraying my emotion. Holmes regarded me coolly for a moment.

“Did you never wonder, James, at the saying ‘crime never pays’?” He asked. “I do. I have been pondering it ever since our foolhardy explosion. The people we maimed, the damage we did… and for what? I could rationalize it if it had achieved something. But it was all for naught.” He swallowed, and I realized, too late, that perhaps Holmes did have feelings after all.

I shook my head. “But this isn’t the end. It doesn’t have to be the end! Thorneycroft’s comrades are marching to Westminster on Sunday. We could join them! Carry our own message!” Holmes chewed his lip, mulling this over for a moment.

“I don’t know…” He said, and then suddenly his arm shot forward, snatching for one of the newssheets I had pulled from him. His eyes widened, and he raised a bony finger, pointing to a sentence in the midst of the previous evening’s reporting from the Commons. I tilted the page so that I could take in the words, reading them aloud.

“Any male person who, in public or private, commits, or is a party to the commission of, or procures or attempts to procure the commission by any male person of-“ I swallowed, my words faltering. “Of any act of gross indecency with another male person, shall be guilty… Christ, Holmes, they have us!” I looked up at him, eyes wide with horror, barely able to believe what I was reading.

“A last minute addition by Mr. Labouchere to the Criminal Law Amendment Bill, it seems.” Holmes’ voice was solemn. He closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly weighing up the options. Finally, he spoke. “You’re right, James. We must give it one last try. After all, what do we now have to lose?”

**

The best option, it seemed, was to join Thorneycroft’s fellows and march on parliament. There were several hundred assorted brewers, porters, clerks and draymen who wanted to protest Thorneycroft’s treatment and our number, even after the losses our cause had suffered after the theatre explosion, was near that again. Beginning at Brick Lane, we also soon gained a motley crowd of hangers-on, intrigued gossips and criminal types, which swelled our numbers and made us truly a force to be reckoned with.

We all felt safe amid so large a gang of fellows: no one could be singled out, no passer-by would be sure who had shouted out “Free Thorneycroft!” and who had pasted a “Beware of Sods” bill on a shop front as our horde shambled past.

At the centre of the crowd, beside Holmes and I, danced Toby Vincent, merrily shouting out, “Protect male love!” from time to time with youthful exuberance. We had been quite surprised by the lad’s recklessness: and _I_ had been rather surprised that he would continue to associate himself with me. However, he was insistent that he wanted to be involved. And, after all, it could be quite a coup for us if he was recognized!

We were all in high spirits as we rounded the corner onto Lower Thames Street, and the Tower of London hove into view. This was an intentional route: one we hoped would create the maximum impact as we followed the meandering river towards Westminster. To our surprise, however, the summer evening presented us with a street ahead blocked with rows of bobbies; it looked, at first glance, as if we might be confronted with the entire Metropolitan police force!

The crowd faltered, uncertain: we had not advertised our plans widely, and it was a surprise to be met with anything like this so early in our proceedings. As we came to a stumbling halt, a shout rang out from amid the ranks of peelers.

“Give up the ringleaders! Give up the men who fired the theatre and go in peace!”

Holmes turned his head towards me, one eyebrow raised quizzically. I shrugged in response: how this had come about, I had no idea.

Luckily, most of the crowd did not understand what it was the police were demanding. All they knew was that their progress had been halted; that they were being prevented from making their statement. The police held their truncheons at the ready, and this stayed the fellows for a while, but then one angry protester threw a stone, knocking a bobby to the ground as it struck the side of his head, just below the line of his helmet. A ripple seemed to run through the crowd, and men started to surge forward towards the line of policemen.

It was only a second before the first shots rang out.

None of us were used to the police being armed; although officers could request a revolver if they required one, most did not, and the widespread availability of pistols seemed to many to be a dark memory of the ‘40s.[2] That _all_ these men were armed merely proved, once more, that they had known what to expect. We had been betrayed.

But by whom? I glanced about myself in some confusion. Just twenty feet in front of me, my comrades were falling, bullets tearing into their fragile flesh. Some, however, had broken the ranks of the uniformed guards. A short way up the mound to the right of the Tower, I saw a burly drayman club a peeler around the head with his own truncheon, splitting the man’s skull with the force of the blow. A few feet away, several of his fellows had an officer on the ground, kicking at him with hobnailed boots.

The chaos of sheer desperation was all around me. The air rang with shots and screams; the scent of gunpowder and a hint of blood hung in my nostrils. I could see the carnage and I felt more thrillingly alive than ever I had. The knife I generally carried on my person was already in my hand, raised and ready to wreak any damage I could muster.

And then, as I glanced across the street that had so rapidly become a battlefield, I caught a glimpse of Toby Vincent. At the far edge of the heaving mass of bodies, he appeared to be deep in conversation with a peeler. As I watched, the uniformed man nodded, and allowed Vincent to slip around him, away from the throng.

Fury welled up inside me. It was Vincent! Toby Vincent had betrayed us: buying back his father’s affections, no doubt, by selling out the men who had set him free. I leapt, single-mindedly, towards him, dodging the flailing bodies as I ran. As I neared the edge of the crowd, a policeman grabbed my arm, gun raised and shouting a warning.

I slashed the knife across his shoulder before he had a chance to pull the trigger, hearing him cry out as the revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering to the cobbles as I ran from the throng.

**

Vincent had a good start on me, and we were several streets away from the melee before I caught him. Luckily, he didn’t know the area, and attempted to make his escape down a narrow street close to the docks, which ended on an enclosed yard, scattered with crates. 

It was still only early evening, but the nearby rioting appeared to have emptied the immediate vicinity. Vincent turned his head, finally hearing my footsteps all too late. A flicker of fear crossed his features, but he composed himself well, coming to a halt beside a stack of teetering boxes.

“So I’m not the only coward, then?” He attempted, by way of an excuse, “You fled the fighting too, Moriarty?” I raised my eyebrows, lifting my right hand, the bloodied knife still clutched in it.

“Mmm,” I gave a shrug by way of answer, but my eyes were fixed on him, glittering dangerously. “It seems only you had the help of the police in your escape, though.” Vincent swallowed, and took a step back.

“I happened to know the man. That’s only to be expected, surely, when my father…”

“You sold us out to your father, you little shit!” I snapped, taking two strides forward. Vincent, whose legs were close against the packing cases, cowered a little but had no space to shrink further away.

“I never did!” His voice was a whine. “You think I would have come out had I known the entire police force would be waiting for us?”

“If you knew they would let you slip away so easily, then yes.” I insisted, though I wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him or not. Vincent raised his chin haughtily, trying another tack.

“You must let me go whether you believe me or no. My father is one of the most powerful men in London!” I tilted my head, regarding him thoughtfully for a moment, then took another step forward.

“Oh, must I?” I mused. Toby Vincent squeaked in alarm as I pinned him up against the crates, the knife at his throat.

“D-don’t hurt me!” His bravado quickly vanished: he had, after all, already had a hint of what I was capable of. I laughed.

“But darling, where would be the fun in that?” I asked him. I tilted my hand, running the point of the knife gently through his flaxen curls, tinting them red. “You know I’ve been itching to take a knife to you since first we met, don’t you?”

“But… why?” Vincent whispered, his voice shaking.

“No reason.” I told him airily, “Just a little perversion of mine.” And I sliced the blade into his cheek.

Vincent yelped, trying to jerk his head away, but my other hand was tangled in his hair, keeping him still enough to slice a deep curve into his beautiful face. The blood welled up in the wake my knife and, already aroused by the scenes I had witnessed by the Tower, I bent forward eagerly, tongue probing the wound.

The lad let out a wail: a low keening sound that ended when I shoved him backwards across a box and slashed the knife across his chest and stomach. The expensive cotton of his shirt was quickly soaked in blood and I ripped away the tattered fabric, cutting into him again and again as the lad sobbed beneath me.

"I'm sorry..." I heard him whimper, but only dimly through the blood pounding in my ears. "I'm sorry I betrayed you. I'll leave... you'll never see me again if you just-" He was interrupted by a hiccuping sob, "Please, just let me go..."

Finally, arm aching a little from the effort, I drew back, my bloodstained fingers grappling with my trousers, cock packed tight and hard within the constrictive fabric. Toby Vincent barely moved as I released my swollen member, sobbing helplessly across the crate, though he began to struggle again as I grabbed him by his shoulders, hurling him over onto his front.

“Don’t, please don’t…” The lad begged as, without further ceremony, I yanked down his trousers.

“Don’t?” I queried. “Whatever happened to protecting male love, darling?” I spat on my hand, a rather cursory effort at lubrication, before forcing my cock savagely between the globes of the delicious arse I’d enjoyed so many times before.

Toby Vincent shrieked as I raped him so that, despite the quiet of the surrounding streets, I had to clap a hand over his mouth in an effort to silence him lest a nearby resident decide to investigate the din. I buried my own face in his hair, tasting the blood smeared there earlier, imagining I could taste his very fear as I thrust brutally into him. I could feel the boy’s body shaking beneath me, his breath warm in short, panicked gasps against my hand.

My fingers dug into the lad’s chin, gripping him hard as I came, my orgasm powering through me in a frenzy of blood and sweat and Toby Vincent’s tears. The knife slipped from the fingers of my other hand, clattering to the cobbles in a spray of crimson drops, and I ejaculated with a low moan.

Gasping, I managed to tear myself away from the boy, staggering to my feet.

“Oh darling, whyever did I wait so long to enjoy you like this?” I asked him. Vincent was still sobbing faintly but, as I stepped away, he managed to draw himself up slowly.

“Y- you brute!” He hissed, shoulders still heaving a little and his eyes wet with tears above the bloody hole in his cheek. “I’ll see you hanged for this!”

I laughed shortly, not thinking him much of a threat. “Oh yes?” As I turned, I saw with interest that Vincent had managed to arm himself with my knife, and was holding it out in front of him, left hand wrapped around the right in an effort to stop the blade shaking. His pose was not one of threat; it looked rather as if he wished to keep the blade as far away from his body as he could.

“And what are you going to do with that, boy?” I asked him.

“I’m going to cut out your damned black heart, you beast!” Toby managed, with some spirit given what he’d just been through. I chuckled.

“I’d love to see you try.” My refusal to take his threats seriously seemed to infuriate the boy, and his voice rose a notch.

“Do you think I can’t hurt you?” He was quickly becoming quite hysterical, his voice rising to a shriek. “My father will have you and Holmes shot on sight after everything you’ve done! All it will take is a word from me! I should have given him your name when last you hurt me. For some foolish reason I thought to give you a chance.” He drew a breath, his voice still shaking but strong in pitch and volume. “But no more! I’ll see you both swinging from the noose and I’ll enjoy watching you gasp your last! I’ll spit on your fucking corpse!”

“Well, well, well,” said a voice from behind us both. “James, you really do seem to have dropped us in it now.” Toby Vincent’s words died out in a whisper, and we both turned. Holmes’ tone may have had a hint of humour in it, but his face was pinched with anger.

“He deserved it.” I shrugged carelessly, "He admitted he betrayed us." Holmes snorted.

“Don’t tell me that’s why you did it.” He retorted.

“I did it because I wished to.” I admitted. “But why should you care?” Holmes’ eyes glittered.

“What did I tell you about consequences, you idiot?” He snapped furiously. “You have no thought of the future, James! You’ll ruin us both, some day!”

“I’ll ruin you both tomorrow!” Toby Vincent piped up, but he looked tired, and the arm holding the knife was shaking violently now. Holmes turned to him with what was almost a smile.

“Mr. Vincent, I can only apologise for the exuberance of Moriarty’s affections.” His voice was oddly soothing and, as he spoke, he took a step forward, raising a hand slightly, reaching for the knife in Toby Vincent’s hand. “You have my word he shall not hurt you again.”

His words were so confident, so reassuring, that Vincent seemed to accept them despite everything. He lowered his arm, allowing Holmes to gently slip the handle of the knife from between his fingers.

Holmes smiled again, taking another step forward, his body now angled behind Toby Vincent as he raised a hand to stroke the lad’s curls.

“I’m sorry, Toby.” He said softly. And, with that, he cut the boy’s throat.

**

We left the scene of the crime with great haste, but not before Holmes had cast his eagle eye around the body to remove any telling clues. We flung the knife in the Thames some distance away and hurried home: aided, no doubt, by the fact that the vast bulk of the metropolitan police force were otherwise engaged. We safely reached home under cover of darkness, and Holmes immediately insisted that we burn all our blood-stained clothing. He no longer seemed angry, merely intent on solving the practical problem with which Toby Vincent’s death had presented us.

I, meanwhile, was rather aroused by having witnessed the casual way in which he had despatched Toby Vincent. I was, of course, hardly a saint myself, but I didn't think I had ever killed a man – at least, not knowingly – so I was somewhat intrigued by the whole experience.

“What did it feel like to take his life?” I asked him curiously, while Holmes carefully inspected my now naked body for any remaining bloodstains. He snorted slightly. 

“I can’t say that I take the same relish in inflicting harm that you do, Moriarty.” He informed me. “It was a means to an end, that’s all.” He took a step back, nodding curtly, obviously satisfied with my appearance.

“Would you rather you had not done it?” I wondered, stepping forward to reduce the gap between us once again. I laid my hands on his sides: he didn’t stop me, but neither did he touch me in return.

“No.” He said simply. “I would do it again if I had to. I had no interest in the boy, but neither do I take any joy in his demise.” I slid my hands around to meet at the small of his back, deepening the embrace.

“You realize he had betrayed us? I saw him, talking with a policeman.”

“Mmm, I believe you told me something of this at the time.” He nodded, still showing absolutely no interest in my caress. “We could not have let him get away with that: the lad knew far too many of our secrets.” He tilted his head, then, eyes cold and piercing. “Would you have left him there, after you had had your fun?”

I realized, then, that this was what had angered him the most. He was probably right – I would simply have discarded the boy, as I had so many others, assuming he would be too scared to do anything about it. Yet Toby Vincent probably _would_ have retaliated, and we both might easily have found the hangman's noose around our necks. I chewed my lip. Perhaps I needed to learn from Holmes’ ruthlessness.

There was no point in answering the question, for he knew as well as I did what the answer was.

“I suppose our days in politics must come to an end.” I said sadly, resting my head on his shoulder as I pulled him closer. Holmes nodded.

“Discretion would certainly seem to be in order.” He said, and there finally seemed to be a faintly wistful tone to his voice. “Even the likes of Charlie Wootton will have to be more careful from now on.”

“Although there is some safety behind closed doors.” I tried to see the bright side, my fingers drifting over his buttocks as I spoke.

“Indeed.” Holmes’ voice was toneless and, although he allowed my lips to brush against his, there was no passion in his kiss.

**

The weeks passed, and our lives returned to some semblance of normality. We went about our daily business, and Holmes managed to scrape together a few cases to keep him busy, although they had lost the flavour of our previous efforts. After all, many of our fellows had been injured or arrested in the riot outside the Tower of London: some had lost their lives, as Toby Vincent had. The others scattered and went their separate ways – the solidarity of our little band had gone for good and, as Holmes had noted, even Charlie was keeping a low profile.

“I only associates with gents I’ve been personally assured of these days.” He told me, in serious tones, when I made a visit to the Caledonian Road some weeks after the march. “You never knows who might be a blue bottle, and I ain’t one for hard labour.” He managed a grin, nonetheless. “ _You’re_ always welcome roun’ these parts though, Mr. M.” He added flirtatiously. “Meet me round the back in ten minutes?”

This was a little more discrete than some of our previous arrangements, and Charlie locked us in the cellar while we took our pleasure. I leant up against a beer barrel, letting my fingers run fondly through Charlie’s hair as his lips closed around my cock. As the lad rapidly sucked me to completion, I found myself extremely glad he hadn’t been entirely discouraged from his usual pursuits. Indeed, my heart seemed to lighten as I caught my breath, ejaculating into Charlie’s eager young mouth.

The cheer didn’t leave me as I took the long walk back home, enjoying the crisp early autumn day, and considering that the new law might actually change my life rather less than I had feared. I even whistled a little as I bounded up the steps to our front door.

Mrs. Hardcastle met me in the hallway, looking unusually anxious.

“It’s Mr. Holmes,” she began hesitantly. I sighed. Holmes hadn’t had a case for five days, and his efforts to fill his time with other pursuits had become increasingly challenging.

“What’s he done now?” I asked, “Poisoned your budgerigars? Set fire to the curtains?” I laughed, climbing the stairs to our parlour on the first floor.

“No, it’s nothing like that!” Mrs. Hardcastle said, a little breathlessly, as she hurried after me on rather shorter and stouter legs.

“What, then?” I flung the door open, supposing I should find out soon enough. 

I stopped short, one stride into the room, staring at the empty shelves opposite where Holmes’ many books and papers had lain, gathering varying levels of dust. His chemicals were gone from the dresser, and his pipe stand from the mantelpiece. Indeed, the room looked so empty I wondered for a moment if we had somehow been robbed. I realised, in that split second, how empty my life would be without him.

“Holmes?” I called out, without much hope of an answer, turning towards our bedroom. Mrs. Hardcastle hurried into the room, breathing hard.

“He’s _gone_ , Mr. Moriarty!” She exclaimed, in some distress. “Just packed up all his things and took off in a carriage this afternoon!”

“Did he say where to?” I asked, knowing full well what the woman’s answer would be.

“No, he wouldn’t answer my questions – wouldn’t even leave a forwarding address!” She wrung her hands anxiously. “He didn’t tell you?” 

“No.” I shook my head, managing to stagger to the table and collapse onto a chair as the shock hit me.

Holmes had left me. But, for the life of me, I had no idea why.

 

[1] In case you share Moriarty’s ignorance: ‘Lady Laycock’ was Victorian street slang for female genitalia.

[2] The 1840s saw upheaval across Europe, particularly the workers’ revolutions of 1848. These had much more impact in continental Europe: however, there had been widespread fear of revolution in Britain as well, hence the greater likelihood of policemen being armed at that time.


End file.
